Monster
by californiatart
Summary: 1649, 16-17th Century Great Britain AU. Due to the death of the treasonous King, all of the noble families participated in a royal battle to win the crown to maintain balance and peace. However, the worse terror is of men and his attempts to fulfill his desires.


**Chapter I**: _The Prince, the Water Basin, and the Servant_

It was after midnight, and all of the good girls and boys in town are either getting ready for scary bedtime tales, or are already asleep in their comfy little beds. The town slowly falls to slumber as every light in its people's homes are dimmed out. Crickets slowly begin their chirping songs to the night, a lullaby for those without a shelter. The sky was misty, slowly infiltrated by the darkness of the life of the night. Uphill, far, far, far away from this sleeping town, is the castle belonged to the Kirkland family, one of the noble bloodline who used to serve for the royal house and the King of Great Britain, Charles I. The fortress's walls were made out of blacks and greys cobblestones. There were men dressed in full armors, hidden by the darkness, guarding the skyscraping palace in every possible corner. All the way up, the tallest building inside the castle, the one that almost touches the clouds, is the only light source for this fortress.

Inside the lighted window panel, a young boy was seen. Considering his looks and attires, one could guess that he is a prince, or at least of someone who is of royal's blood. He was rather handsome for his age, pale skin, golden hair, green forest eyes; he was the epiphany of mother's nature offspring. Instead of fondling up to his stuffed animal dolls, or listening to nonsensical folklores, or embracing a mother figure, or sleeping, he was cleaning up a sword. A real sword. Steel one. The one that could slide through a human's flesh effortlessly, the one that could subdued the strongest of men, the one that could cause a catastrophic destruction. There were spots of reds damping his cleaned hands. In the left corner, where the light could not touched, is the prince's personal servant, ready for tasks to be called upon. After a while passed, there is a group of owls, whom begins to gathers around a tall tree next to the building, watching the charming boy. They all turned their tiny heads in a full circle as the young prince last stoke of the cloth on his sword stops. As soon as the sword is spotless of neither dirt nor stain, he places it back inside its sheath and places it under his bed. He walked over to a water basin placed on top of a stand in the right corner of his room and begins cleaning his hands.

"Washing. Washing. Washing." The young prince chanted with a blank look on his face.

As if sensing his master's distress, the servant begins a small conversation with the prince. "Master Kirkland, have you heard of the news around town lately?"

"Yes, unfortunately. A witch is on the loose. The people are exaggerating this whole mess, though, only crooks or those who used to commit crimes, are being targeted. They should be glad that a savior is watching over them." The prince's tightened shoulders loosened up a little.

"Oh, Master, you are the kindest man I've known." The servant remarked teasingly at the prince. "… You never know though, his next target could be you."

"As if that is the least of my worries." The prince shrugged, thinking how absurd he sounded at the moment. But, it is the truth. "However, a murderer is a murderer. Regardless of his stand on the circumstances. But what can I do? I could barely keep myself alive for that matter."

After done cleaning his hands, the prince raised up his hands for the servant to change his elegant clothes into something more loose and snug for relaxation after a long, tiresome day. As his shirt slips off his body, the prince casually speaks, "While Humphrey Gilbert and his brother are out on the world and embark a great journey of exploration in the New World, making good use of their name and create histories of his discoveries… I'm stuck here killing my own brothers and sisters."

"Don't be, Master. I know you are a good man, and having you as a ruler, shall only bring prosperity and wealth to this kingdom… You would not want your eldest cousin to succeed the throne wouldn't you?"

"Urg. What an incompetent tart." The young prince groaned distastefully at such thoughts. "All he did was sending dummies under his family's name to participate in the tournament."

"Tomorrow is your third battle, eh?" The servant muse, putting on a black silk garment for the prince.

"Yes." The young prince nodded, raising his hands upward for the servant to secure the waist tie. After making sure the prince is contentedly positioned on the bed, the servant quietly blows out two candles on the holder, leaving just one on for light. The servant then sat on the edge of the bed and strokes the young prince's golden hair until he falls asleep.

…

When morning came, the prince was dressed in a much fancier attires than yesterday. When the prince's morning grooming routine is finished and had eaten a full meal, he is then escorted to a carriage waiting outside of the castle's gate. His personal servant is up and ready on the stallion, awaiting for the arrival of the prince to escort him to the royal arena. The prince step in and seated himself in a base inside the carriage without much noise or causes a hassle at such an early time. If anything, he is well known for his demeaned temper when the sun is not even yet awakens. When the carriage's door closes in, he turns toward the tiny window connected to his personal servant getting ready outside with the stallion.

"Alfred, can you please first lead me to the chapel?" The prince requested politely.

"Yes, Master Kirkland." The servant agrees and begins pulling the stallion's belts of ropes for them to take off.

After leaving the prince's castle, passing through the town, not too far away is the chapel. It was very early in the morning, but there are some people dressed in dresses and suit for confessions and prayers already. The Holy Father himself, stood by the gate to greet his many followers, and upon seeing the prince's carriage, he bit him an acknowledgment.

"Good morning, Father." The prince bitted after getting out of his carriage.

"Same to you, my Son," The Holy Father smiled warmly.

Once inside of the chapel, the prince noticed for the first time, that there are small scripts and tiny texts on the floor, on the walls, and on the ceilings. He steps over to a statue and found amusement in a text, "… King Henry VIII of England wanted an annulment from his partner so he could then be wedded to the beautiful Anne Boleyn, daughter of Thomas Boleyn and Lazy Elizabeth Howard… and then, when the Pope would not give him what he desire; the King built and developed his own constitution, the Church of England under his majesty..." The prince laughs at the writing incited on the white asphalt and adds, "How romantic. He also married his son's wife, Catherine of Aragon."

He then recites, "Thou shalt not uncover the nakedness of thy brother's wife: it [is] thy brother's nakedness," A breathe, "And if a man shall take his brother's wife, it [is] an unclean thing: he hath uncovered his brother's nakedness; they shall be childless."

"Talk about being twisted." The prince mumbled to himself at such ironic satire. His own family is no less perverse than Henry VIII's tale.

The prince turn to the huge statue ahead, takes off his hat, and kneel on top of the marbled floor, and pray, "Lord, give me strength, give me liberty."

After his pleas to the Lord, the prince found himself, once again, inside the carriage, heading toward the royal arena. The prince finds peace watching the scenery behind a window, the white clouds, the blue skies, the clear lakes, so serene. However, his peace was disrupted upon hearing crowds cheering. Uphill, on top of the tallest mountain, is the royal tournament. The prince's shoulder flinched a little; he is becoming a crowd's favorite as he could see paintings of himself outside of the building's walls. He begins to sweat a little, his throat grows dry, his heart begins to pick up the pace.

… But worse of all, is that, the smell of blood and death is not remotely present at the arena. Instead pleasant scent of fresh jasmine and lavender lingered in the air. As if this cage of despair is nothing but a nice place for children to play hide and seek. The carriage stop. The prince takes in a long inhale as the door opens to an unknown realm. His surrounding looks more and more like the Devil's Lair. But, he is living, he is breathing, he is thinking, right? He is going to be the next King to maintain peace. It is God's biting that he will be a great ruler since the last King is a traitor.

"Master Kirkland, are you alright, sir?" The servant examined in a worrisome tone, handling the prince his weapons.

"… I am alright, thank you." The prince smiled nervously, and quickly regains his cool demeanor.

"What is a King when he cannot control his own fate?" The prince ruminated to himself and his servant. "Why must I fight? Why must I abide to violence? Why must I be King?" He inattentively questioned.

"To live." The servant retorted. "Simple. If you cannot fight, then you are already dead, Master Kirkland."

Once inside of the arena, the people applaud for the promising prince, guards' hoots and recognize him, children ran towards him for blessing, even the judges greets him. Sure the prince is important, but not important enough yet for the higher ups to notice him and his skill in battles. This is just a preselected trial; the juiciest stuff is yet to come for the young prince. The people adore him, as long as he continues to fight and win under their imminent gratitude. There are fun, colorful decorations everywhere, on the stands, on the four walls, even on the floor. The seats are filled with merry spectators and on their wrist are band of the colors of whom they are cheering for. All the way at the bottom is the battle arena, the whole field is locked up by a metal cage, just like a trap for animals. Along the way down the arena, are more spectators rooting for the prince:

"Sir Kirkland, I hope you will not disappoint us."

"You are a very talented and intelligent young man; I want you to be King."

"I cannot wait to see what you can do next!"

The prince opponent today is a man goes by the name of Peter, and surely enough, on the opposite side of the stadium, is a small figure walking downward to the battle arena. His weapon is an axe, it takes up almost half the size of his body. The prince wanted to laugh, instead of trying to analyze his opponent's strength and agility, he wanted to cuddle him. Upon the prince and his opponent entering the arena, the ring's entrance closes in on them, like trapping rats in a crate. Before beginning a heated battle, everybody in the stadium stood up and pay people begin to pay tributes for their late Kings and Queens. They chanted and sing to a strange rhythmical song. Instead of scarifying an entity like a group of senseless ravage tribes, they offer flowers and foods for the two young men standing below them. A ceremony of death.

The prince slowly raises his sword, like a gentleman, he silently urges his opponent to attack first. After all, his next opponent, is no less a child, but not yet a man. He smiled politely.

_Is this some sort of mockery on the behalf of his good name?_

The young man by the name of Peter dashes forward suddenly. Despite his lithe built, he moves so fast like a lion preying on a deer. The young man jumps from side to side, only to attack the prince's weak open spots. The prince, in return, attacks back with equal agility and movement. He is almost mirrored perfectly opposite of his opponent's assaults. They never exchange greetings or words, only to attack and provoke each other. There are no fancy style or flashing communication between the two, the duel between them is a silent waltz. Peter raises his axe high up in the air and slammed it against the prince's sword, causing a huge vibrational cry. The spectators had to covers their ears at such a spiteful sound. He swing, and swing, and swing, almost desperately so. As if he is killing time so he could return home soon to his family and live for another day.

_Is it wrong that he is reading his mind?_

The prince had no choice. Even though his opponent is much younger him, he had skills beyond his age, surpassing the most prominent swordsmen he had known. And good god, and he moves _fast_. The prince had a hard time following his frantic attempts at finishing this match quickly. As if he wanted to spare him from time and pain, the suffering trial before death. The prince pretense ignorance of this urgency as a matter of fact. In reality, he grew bore of Peter's agitated attacks, they becomes a pattern, almost metrically. The prince himself is not an easy opponent; he is being overestimated because of his slow, uninterred attacks. In actuality, the prince his prolonging his life as much as possible; he is taking in Peter's pain, agony, and suffering through their eye-contacts. But, what could he do? Even if he is a prince himself, he is just a mere pawn for the royals and their rules. The prince signed assiduously in between their duel, he is tired of thinking, of wanting, of desiring. As the axe is swing toward his head, the prince duck under it and pierce Peter's heart with his thin sword. The crowds stood up and applaud expertly for another victorious fight of the prince and his mighty blade. Bloods were dripping down the prince's sword like a falling waterfall.

…

Later that night, the prince finds himself like any other day ever since this royal tournament started. It was just him, the water basin, and his personal servant inside of his room. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing extravagant, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing worth to be celebrated about. It was just another ordinary day for the prince.

"Washing. Washing. Washing." He pondered out loud as he swabs his bloodstained hand in a small water basin. No matter how much he tried to be ridden of the scarlet crimson colors, it imprinted itself onto him like a second skin, like a mold. In his mind, he saw the little red droplet of bloods as an infectious disease being multiplies ten-fold. The trails of the remaining bloods remind him of borer larvae crawling down alongside the branches of his green veins and blue vessels. The prince looked as though a witch has cast a curse on him… It is a good thing that it is only him and his servant is present inside his room. He should not think of a thing such as witchcrafts though, or else he might get drowned or branched by the villagers. He should be careful at this time of night.

"Washing. Washing. Washing."

After one last look in the mirror, the young prince's shoulder sinks tirelessly and walked back to his bed. The servant smiles warmly and pulls the blanket over the young prince's body. The prince molded his body into a cocoon and lets the blanket sheltered his cold body. The two of the candles are blown out by the servant, leaving one for just enough light. After that, the servant walks over to the bed, sat on the edge and proceeds to stroke the prince's golden hair.

* * *

_**Author's Note**_: Hello friends! I'm back and lazier than ever. I hope you enjoyed my latest installment of Medieval fanfic, Monster! I always have loved the inner thoughts of a human being, and how far will they go about to survive life itself, and their course of actions in between. This fanfic is inspire by my inner struggle as a human being and how I sees the people around me struggle with the same problem: survival. Anyway, I'm rambling, see you next update! :)


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